


ways of exploring

by thisishardcore



Category: Columbine - Fandom, True Crime - Fandom
Genre: Drabble Collection, Ficlet Collection, High School, M/M, Mutual Pining, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:48:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26869948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisishardcore/pseuds/thisishardcore
Summary: all of the monsters that rise in your chest are fit for a horror movie. terror in suburbia, a boy is thinking about kissing his best friend.drabble-a-day collection for october
Relationships: Eric Harris & Dylan Klebold, Eric Harris/Dylan Klebold
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> gonna write a drabble a day for october, so whatever ones end up being for columbine are gonna go here. formatting might get weird and all that, but it's more for myself than anything else. feel free to comment and kudos as always tho

burning tongues and tired eyes. you've both stayed up too late, both have class in the morning. knocking down a bunch of fucking bowling pins-- you'll never stop thinking about the time you went shooting with eric, got a bunch of fucking pellets stuck in the side of those classic wooden pins. you'll never stop thinking about the days to come, until they finally come and you get to really see how you hold up under pressure. 

but know all you wanna think about stupid teenage shit. there's some annoying girl in your math class. thinks she's a fucking angel. a couple guys are getting on your nerves, jocks and their friends. they keep bumping into you in this hallways with these stupid fucking grins on their face, keep swearing they've seen you and eric hold hands during lunch. eric would cut your hand off before he let that fly. in public, at least. 

'cause he's in your lap right now, talking about some guy he saw cheat on his reading quiz in English. he's twirling a pen in his hands 'cause he doesn't know how to sit still, and his head's in your lap. his voice carries up past the both of you, rising like smoke from a house fire. you wonder which one of you is the source. you wonder if you'd feel like this is eric was a girl. 

you can't even run your fingers through his hair. not that you really want to, but you feel like you should-- there's an itching in your arms. a hunger. and most of the time, the hunger chalks up to a vague sort of frustration. a boredom. a need for any kind of stimulation possible. 

eric looks up at you. all of the monsters that rise in your chest are fit for a horror movie. terror in suburbia, a boy is thinking about kissing his best friend. you quit thinking altogether. 

you know he's thinking about something similar. it's the first time you two have been alone in a while, all the excuses have run out, and you both know the reason. you're both scared of the reason. it hangs in the corner of the room, a giant, terrible void. where stupid teenage complaints should go, the void sits. you both stop talking about kids in your class.

the night goes quiet. your throat feels like its on fire. you will die before you ever say anything truthful. you will die soon, and it will be just as quiet as this. you hope eric will still be this close. you hope death won't sever blood. 


	2. making out to faces of death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is for a friend of mine >:)

dylan's eyes are always buzzing with something, always paying attention. he flicks from one detail to another, never consciously putting pieces together, but understanding things all the same. he has a trigger happy sort of instinct. flight or flight being activated at the drop of a hat, going from soft-spoken, bad posture, careful hands, to a being of pure energy, tripping over his words. the camera showed it, yeah, but it was nothing compared to being in the same room with him. his entire expression changes, his voice going rough and deep, bouncing off the fucking walls.

but there were moments, usually when playing doom, or watching some movie, when dylan was completely fucking silent. zero fucking kelvin. he'd suck on his bottom lip, focus in his eyes, and you'd have to tap your foot, snap a finger to make sure your ears were still working. it was like an electric fence going out. it was fucking mesmerizing. 

tonight it was during Faces of Death. banned in countless countries, dylan looked fucking overjoyed when he first mentioned it. talking about obscenity and snuff, words rolling over one another like gravel shooting off a back road. you'd never be able to blow him off, never be able to say no when he looked like a kid at a candy store. not him. 

and so you're watching it with him, on some shady tape, in your basement, in the middle of the night. dylan sits with his arm stretched out over the back of your couch, looking like he struck gold. looking enraptured. and you're looking at him. 

you're wondering if death always means dying, or if splitting in two can be a death of its own. you're wondering if dylan will look back at you when he turns and meets your eye. his tongue is on his lip. you silently track the tendon in his neck and wonder if you can gnaw through it. you can feel your own blood (stuck pig wrapped in thin plastic, a bandaid more than a cure, barely held back). and you see dylan's arm covering his lap.

and okay, listen. there have been many an awkward boner between the two of you, and it's fine. but there's someone screaming on-screen, and dylan looks like he might hum back to life and tear you apart. you feel the need to strike first. 

you move closer, test the waters. dylan stays wonderfully still. so you look at him again, and he's smiling, and it makes you laugh. his head tilts back. the tendon stretches, his adam's apple bobs. and then you're kissing him-- or, you're kissing his neck, your hand under his jaw. he doesn't make a sound, which is for the best. your teeth feel like fangs and you're not confident in your ability to keep from sucking him dry, bringing two cells into one host. bringing him into the burning building of your body. 

you're bringing him into some sort of fire anyway. you think about all the rumors already swirling around the both of you. you think about the preps, and the jocks, and all the teachers who turn a blind eye when they call you any number of things. and you will their damnation. and you kiss your best friend. 

his mouth is warm, energy and adrenaline. he hums. he's beautiful. you will never tell him. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops was gonna write another first kiss but now they're just holding hands

when it's just the two of them, the summer night air floating through the window, it's like the world is just a storm crashing them into each other. they share the bed because they always fight about who's gonna sleep on the floor, and tonight is not a night for fighting. the wind blows through the trees outside-- the world just a storm. the world just a breeding ground for kids like them. chalk it up to bullying, rage, neglect, whatever. doesn't fucking matter. they're laying next to each other, and the tension in the air lies flat, thin, easy. no strangers to an unspoken understanding. 

they can tell the other is awake by the way they breathe-- the way air keeps catching in their lungs, sudden and simple. neither of them says a word. they stare at the ceiling, eyes catching every line of moonlight that falls into the room. their body heat blurs together, their thoughts become indistinguishable. bodies falling into each others' cavities. it's hard to think of any other place that feels this complete. 

they're not sure who's the first to reach out to the other, but their hands meet in the center of the bed, bounce back, meet again. there's little to keep them from intertwining, so they do. and the summer night air holds them, their hands, their quick breaths. they let their lines grow weak, their walls turn to sand, and closely following their minds, their bodies melt together, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. 

one presses his head against the other's neck. without light shining on them, it's hard to tell which. they feel alright in the shadows. they can pretend it's a dream if they want to, can hold the memory close if they'd rather. 

it's so rare for this level of tenderness to reach the both of them, but the light of every star reaches the earth eventually. the chances of them being born at the same time, living in the same town, going to the same school, meeting each other, liking each other enough to be in the same bed-- astronomical. but they did, and they are. it's a half step and leap towards the monster in the corner of the room, the thing neither of them will look at until their backs are to the bookshelves. 

which is fine. they don't need to know. they can fit together without it. and maybe the tension is more exciting than any real thing will be. it's not worth finding out. 

their stomachs ache as they fall asleep. 


	4. driving in your car

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just think they deserve to have nice moments sometimes . very short one because my brain has been fried today

Sometimes, when the temperature was right, they'd go on these long drives. Blasting music, singing along, keeping the windows down. Dylan would smoke one cigarette after another, drink from his little flask, yell shit out the passenger's window. Despite the very rare cars that passed them by, it would feel like they were the only ones left on Earth. And that's how Eric would imagine them. The aftermath of a zombie apocalypse or something. The only two people left. 

Dylan would go along with it, crack jokes about the imagined decrepit world around them, pretend to snipe zombies outside his window, brag about headshots. 

In those moments, it felt like nothing could go wrong. It felt like Eric was a proper teenager, doing proper teenage things. He'd reach over and take Dylan's cigarette, laughing, smiling like the whole world was against them, reckless and wonderful. He'd take one or two drags, flick it out the window, listen to Dylan complain over the music, see him click his dying lighter. 

Sometimes they'd sit in abandoned parking lots and talk about school, or friends, or parents. Dylan would always bring up how he felt like he was hiding from everyone, but couldn't even find the will to feel bad about it anymore. And Eric would always bring up how it was everyone else's fault that no one's intervened. That's what everyone's gonna say. 

But sometimes they would talk about nothing at all. Sometimes it was just music and smoke. Sometimes a mood would strike the both of them-- maybe because of their alienation from everyone else, maybe because everyone already thought they were too close anyway-- Dylan would take Eric's hand, hold it loose in case Eric wanted to pull away. He usually didn't. He'd usually hold the moment in his mind, close his eyes and feel Dylan's heartbeat through his palm. 

KMFDM would be thrumming, the car near shaking apart, but they would both feel perfectly calm. It rarely went far beyond that-- a simple extension of affection, proof that they weren't friends based on their shared violence, weren't using each other, but supporting each other. Leaning on each other. Providing each other with something no one else was willing to. 

The song would end. Dylan would move away, pull his hands back into his lap, look out the window. And Eric would drive out of the lot and start his way back home. 


End file.
